


Nock

by namarupa



Series: target range [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anxiety, F/M, Gen, Oikawa being a Shittykawa, Personal Space, Spicy Fluff, Sports Injury, Spring High Semifinal, includes:, with a side of Sweetykawa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 18:01:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16142561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/namarupa/pseuds/namarupa
Summary: "It's such a hot day," he croons. "Better fill up all those bottles, pretty girl."Oikawa runs into Yachi on Tournament Day.





	Nock

**Author's Note:**

> I took down my account for some much needed time away from the internet. But I'm back! And reposting fic! This is one of them.
> 
>  
> 
> **Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.**

A little blondie runs into him after their win over Date Tech, juggling bottles in her arms like they're babies. Oikawa wonders if he should play some mind games. Her gym uniform is that pitch black Karasuno abyss of dismal banality. Did Karasuno’s founders have a secret crow fetish or something? Then her bottles escape her grip and she squeaks in horror. Naturally Oikawa grabs them before they fall to the ground, with no small amount of amusement that he could be holding on to Tobio-chan's bottle and oh, where is the laxative powder when you fucking _need_ it.

Blondie very carefully takes them back, making sure not to touch fingers. He can practically hear her brain screeching in despair. She’s so tiny she has to strain her neck to look up at him and the smooth fragile expanse of her neck above all that black is pale and pink by turns. She looks, poor thing, as if she's been presented with a rabid Rottweiler to pet. Good god, the girl’s regarding him as a predator. How awful. He’s nothing but nice. He flashes her a smile crafted to perfection and she stands absolutely still, stiff as a pole.

"It's such a hot day," he croons. "Better fill up all those bottles, pretty girl."

He has a healthy sense of irony after all.

"Yes, t-thank you!"

So, this is usual: girls tripping over themselves, fighting for the right to squeal ‘Oikawa-kun!’, ‘Oikawa-senpai!’, to drown him in cookies and lunches anytime of the week. The appeal of Valentine’s Day loses steam after a while when all he has to do is look too long and receive chocolates, red ribbons and rose motifs on confession letters bursting out of his locker almost every day of the week.

Oikawa justifies his behaviour to himself. He’s fighting a battle, to put it in melodramatic terms. Tactical warfare and all that, you mess with your enemy and they stumble. Maybe she won’t give Tobio enough water. Maybe she won't screw the caps tight and the whole team gets drenched and they'll play with singlets like the barbarian corvids they are and freeze to death with the damn AC blowing subzero as it always does _haha_ , he thinks, _it pays to have inside knowledge_ -still it is a little disconcerting, the way she tracks his hands and his feet, not once actually meeting his eyes. Her pupils focus somewhere by his ear, and it’s her stance that pricks his conscience, the rigid set of her shoulders, her feet shuffling, it's in the message hanging above her buttercup head in sickly neon lettering- don’t look at me; too long and I’ll scream and not in a good way- she puts distance between them with each backward step.

Oikawa shrugs, putting a chokehold on sympathy. Can't win 'em all.

* * *

 

When the final whistle blows all Oikawa can hear is static. White noise until he hears Iwa-chan snort his snot back up his nose to stop himself from bawling, and loves his best friend all the more.

They bow, Coach gives them a short pep talk, they cool down while crying and then Oikawa shoos everyone off to the bus. Nothing new, really. Not like they’ve ever won tournament finals in all his years playing volleyball. Iwa-chan hovers behind Matsukawa and Hanamaki, glaring at Oikawa from beneath those crazily slanted eyebrows- ah, Oikawa thinks, this is the guy who’d kick me in the balls and buy me a beef bowl two seconds later- he want so badly to burrow his head in Iwa-chan's shirt and give in to childish bawling. Given the circumstances, he thinks Iwa-chan would let him. Oikawa’s Emotional Pain comes with best friend privileges.

But he doesn't exercise that right. The sense of defeat he feels is too raw, almost caustic and he's a little afraid that if he says something right now to Iwa-chan about their recent loss something else, harsh and unfeeling might slip out alongside it.

 "Tell Coach I'm going to get some water from the vending machine," he sing-songs instead in Iwa-chan's ear. Of course Iwa-chan doesn't buy the semi-lie.

 "Come back when you finish crying doofus," he growls and smacks his butt waay harder than necessary.

 "You know, that would sound much more badass if snot wasn't coming out of your nose," Oikawa points out wryly, rubbing his sore asscheek in a totally non-lasvicious manner. "And those red eyes!" He shudders. "You look like you went through a whole bag of pot."

 "Fuck off," comes the laconic reply. "I'll treat you some gyudon after we get home."

 Oikawa smiles privately to himself, heading up the stairs.

 "And stop rubbing your ass like that. I didn't do you that hard!"

  _Caught you_.

 "My my, Iwa-chan," Oikawa purrs without missing a beat. "Not in public, please."

 "Oh shit," he hears Hanamaki say. Matsukawa's muffled hyena giggles follow him all the way to the second floor.

* * *

 

 In some ways the building has changed. A fresh coat of paint and new light fixtures, tiles replacing the old linoleum. But he recalls the exact moment he first stepped onto the courts, the expectation like getting your passport stamped through Customs, Air Salonpas sprayed so often the smell has somehow permeated into the walls (now it sticks to his clothes and will follow him home). The immutable feeling of sheer excitement and tension wrapping around his spine, frissons like sparks down his thighs. Like crossing a road in busy traffic, courting the swerve of a motorcycle or a car bumper playing tag with your heels, but sweeter. Sharper. Then defeat, always, always. He fucking hates how much he loves this place.

Ah, there’s that little alcove with the ratty sofa that’s cut off from view if he drags it just so. Oikawa limps over to it and collapses.

Back in his first year Shiratorizawa trounced them in straight sets and Oikawa remembers crying in this exact same spot, complaining aloud about Ushijima’s scrawny arms and all that undeserved power behind his spikes. Its rather different this time. Now its Tobio and his new teammates, collective effort mirroring his own team and that last spike that bounced off his hands before he computed the move, reacted accordingly. Arguments are so easily made in the aftermath, stategy, intelligent strategy can all be refuted. The whistle’s blown. The game is over. Power is more easily circumvented than placement. Every volleyball player who's not Ushiwaka knows this, none more so than him and Oikawa’s throat stings with the frustration of being beaten at his own game. By a hyperactive shrimp, of all things.

He shifts and curses as his knee twinges. The ache is deep-set, makes him want to bite a hole in his jersey; it just doesn’t fucking go away. Like some kind of poltergeist haunting his every movement. He's spent enough nights awake wondering if this isn't retribution for all the times he's been an asshole to people. Good old karma ripping his tendons to shreds.

“Urgh. Fuck,” he mutters and shakes his head like a dog. Clearing the stupid thoughts. “Where’s the vending machine?”

"Oikawa Tooru-san?"

A plastic water bottle appears in his line of vision. He reigns himself in and says "Ah, my saviour!" Looks up and his thanks dies in his throat. The little Karasuno girl is carrying a duffel bag and Oikawa has a wild, animal urge to hurl it to the ground and stomp on it. He stares at her, at her bottle, at her help, working his throat, trying to ease the scratchy dryness but words won't come no matter how hard he swallows, his tongue like lead.

"I-" Oikawa says.

“Its clean.”

She’s blushing. Just, red. Lobster pink, a shade lighter than actual sunburn. He can see it all the way up to the tips of her ears.

Oikawa stares, while she twists the cap slowly, exaggerating the motions until he hears a faint creak as the sealing breaks. She looks at him like a pleased puppy.

And maybe its that look, the hopeful expression, that prickles his shriveled sense of self. He hadn’t planned on being nice and accommodating to anyone, but the bottle feels delightfully cool as he takes it from her with a murmured thanks, and the water is even more so.

“I’ll be going now,” Blondie says. She makes to leave and Oikawa unthinkingly stands and gasps in pain, the sound like a whipcrack in the muffled stillness of the corridor.

“Oikawa-san!” Blondie flutters around him, her hands clutching at his arm, but he manages to collapse back down before he accidentally falls on her instead.

“Sorry.” He grunts. “Little achy-poo in my leg.” He shoots her a smile that stretches far too widely across his cheeks, all teeth and gum, hell he feels slightly manic. “Run along now, your arch enemy is going to be just-ffh- fine.”

“No no, Oikawa-san!” chirps Blondie, “I can’t just leave you here like this.” She sets her bag down, and Oikawa's eyes bulge a little as she unzips it; she’s obviously robbed a pharmacy and then some.

“Does Karasuno get sick a lot?” he asks.

“Not really, but I believe in being prepared. Soo much better than having nothing on hand when something does happen." She shoots him glance. "You know? But I have a lot of other things in her too! Everyone’s got their own little quirks. Hinata and Asahi-san get really bad tummy upsets, and Tanaka-senpai excites himself so I give him eucalyptus scent to calm him down. Daichi-san likes to make rubber band chains. Suga-san puts a wet towel over his face and finds a corner.” She prattles, very happy to divulge her teams secrets. He nods and nods until the exact moment she realizes the fact a little too late and claps a hand over her mouth.

Oikawa rolls his eyes. "Oh no! I don’t think that’s going to do much for me, Karasuno-chan. I’m out of the whole thing, remember?” _Your boys knocked me out_ , he refrains from adding.

“Oh, yes.” Her smile is small and somewhat guilty. Then she crouches over her bag and roots around, emerging with some bandages.

“I learnt how to tape!” she says triumphantly. “Straighten out your leg please.” Oikawa is quite sure the shock of his knee pain has dislodged some significant neurons because he obligingly stretches out his leg across the length of the sofa.

She bends over and then looks up at him. “Actually, where is the pain?”

“Around here,” he points to the lower part of his knee cap, where the bony protuberance meets flesh. 

“Then, please flex your leg. I mean, just sit normally. Shall I help?” She actually moves forward. Perfect nursing. She’s pretty cute, Oikawa realises. When she’s not scuttling away from him.

"Karasuno-chan, I'm sorry about earlier," he says in a rush, and jolts when she reaches out and places a firm if slightly cold finger on his thigh. _Ah, shit my leg's kinda hairy. Would she mind that?_

Her big brown eyes look up at him. “No pain here? Or anywhere else?”

He shakes his head. Contriteness doesn't come easy, not with today's defeat still unravelling his composure, like forcibly pulling on the stitches of a slow-healing wound. Her generosity humbles him. He finds, surprising himself with the vehemence of his need, that he wants to erase that moment of unpleasantness, that it doesn’t sit well on his conscience. To have a girl he intentionally frightened be kind to him after receiving shit for all her troubles.

She measures and cuts, stretching and rollling the tape up his knee and thigh. He sits with his hands loosely clasped between his legs and picks out all the gold highlights in her hair, while she mutters ‘10 percent stretch’, and ‘anchor’ and then pulls out bright pink compression tape and fixes it in place. It’s only when she starts rubbing the tape, getting it adhered that it dawns on him that she hasn’t replied.

“I mean it. I’m sorry for the- I really scared you, didn't I. I’m really sorry. You’re some kind of saint, helping me out like this.”

"It doesn't matter. I'm always scared. It's just my Townperson B coming out at the worst moments." She holds up a hand in a 'what can you do?' gesture.

Oikawa laugh bursts its way out his chest, low and rough, before he's aware of it. “That doesn’t excuse what I did. If some cocky bum tries to intimidate you, you're not obliged to do anything for him.”

"Allright."

"Hey, no." He considers shifting forward but that would mean getting in her space, not a good move, he thinks. He settles for clearing his throat. "I mean it. Really. You can walk away from assholes." 

_ You can walk away from me. _

“Allright.” She grins. She brushes after every meal, probably, to get teeth that pearly. Its an infectious smile. He recognizes the slight tilt to her lips because it usually means joke but it’s really her eyes that are laughing. Oikawa hopes he’s being forgiven. He has a nagging suspicion he doesn't half deserve it.

 She gets up, tidying away her equipment and zipping up her bag. Oikawa tests his knee. Flexion doesn't hurt as much, and though putting his weight on it is a fucking endurance ride, it holds. He shoots his unobtrusive medic an appreciative glance and then an incredulous one, clocking the fact that her bag is about the size of her upper body. Her hip juts out to adjust for imbalance, and Oikawa can appreciate the ease at which she handles the disadvantage of her stature and build.

 “It's not too heavy for you?” He asks. She’s so pocket-sized its ridiculous. What, four feet and some candy canes piled on top of each other?

“Not really.’ She starts walking. Her trainers squeak on the flooring and he has to call out his thanks, before her prospective bodyguards appear.

"Townperson B or not, you're pretty much my hero today. Thank you, my knight in shining armor."

Theatrical, flamboyant. Guaranteed a volleyball to the head if only Iwa-chan were here. Her expression slackens; shock, Oikawa guesses, just like all the others when he brings out the slimy old man facets of his personality. But in the brief lull he looks at her, really looks. She's fresh faced, round and pink with wide brown eyes silky and almond shaped and Oikawa, watching her, begins to realise, she's actually really, really cute-

then she grins, upper lip curling in on itself against milk white teeth, her bottom lip full; generous, giving, a shade lighter than mischievous-

and checkout line eight, boom motherfucker he's gone.

"Could I have your number?" Oikawa asks, a little too quickly and a little too loudly. He aches all over, both on the outside and the inside. He needs some respite from volleyball, at least no more today, and he has a team he needs to lead for one last time. The bus is waiting for him. But after he gets home, after gyudon, after the mandatory all-night gaming marathon with his sister, afterwards…

"And your name, if its not too much trouble?"

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think :). Kudos, Comment, Flame etc.


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